


Two Men and a Boat

by hutchynstarsk



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Banter, Boating, Fishing, Gen, Humour, wet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 12:27:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>written for the DIALJ challenge</p><p>Thanks for the beta by <span class="ljuser i-ljuser"></span><a href="http://anna060957.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://anna060957.livejournal.com/"><b>anna060957</b></a><br/>Written for a prompt by Byslantedlight <a href="http://discoveredinalj.livejournal.com/237777.html?thread=5961169#t5961169">here</a></p>
    </blockquote>





	Two Men and a Boat

**Author's Note:**

> written for the DIALJ challenge
> 
> Thanks for the beta by [](http://anna060957.livejournal.com/profile)[**anna060957**](http://anna060957.livejournal.com/)  
>  Written for a prompt by Byslantedlight [here](http://discoveredinalj.livejournal.com/237777.html?thread=5961169#t5961169)

 

**Two Men and a Boat**

by Allie

 

 

Doyle checked his wristwatch. “You don’t think they’re angry with us?”

“Two handsome blokes like us? Nah. Ladies love the lovable rogues.”

Doyle scanned the road for approaching cars, but none slowed and stopped. “You don’t think they’re angry about last week?”

“You worry too much. Get your oar in there, paddle around a bit. Will do you good—use up your excess energy!”

“I’ll use up your excess energy in a minute,” said Doyle without heat.

“No one has yet,” said Bodie with more than a hint of a smug smile.

Doyle rolled his eyes and clambered into the little boat. It wobbled as he eased down onto the seat and began dabbling around with the oar, sculling himself in a clumsy circle. “Fishing,” he said, making an expressive, almost comical face. “I dunno about you, but I’ve never yet met a girl who really loves fishing. D’you think we should’ve invited them somewhere else for to make up for the broken date?”

“Raymond, leave it to the expert. Any red-blooded British girl would rather have a waterside picnic than almost anything else. A little riparian entertainment...”

“You watch your mouth.”

Bodie continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “A nice, relaxing day by the water, with the added attract of two handsome men. Well... one handsome man, and... you.”

“I knew you were going to say that. You’re getting predictable in your old age, mate. Here, toss us a sarnie. They’re not coming.”

“They _are_ coming. Have a little faith, and practice your patience.”

“I haven’t got any. Used it up years ago, dealing with you.”

“Fish paste or bacon?”

“Oh, bacon. Oi!” He barely caught the thrown sandwich and cast his partner an indignant look.

Bodie grinned broadly. “Careful, sunshine. Don’t want to tip the boat there.”

“I’ll tip your—”

“Put a sock in it. They’re here...”

Both men watched as a car pulled up. A young man stepped out of it and started towards them with certainty. Bodie and Doyle exchanged perplexed glances, and shrugs. Doyle brought the boat back to the river bank and clambered out of it, to be by his partner’s side.

“Message for you,” said the young man, handing Bodie an envelope. “Burroughs Messenger Service. Have a good day!” He gave them a professional smile and retreated.

Doyle leaned over Bodie’s shoulder to peer at the note his partner’s hands opened.

“’Dear Bodie and Doyle,” Bodie read aloud. Doyle began to laugh before he reached the end in an increasingly enraged tone. “’Something has come up at work at the last minute. We’re terribly sorry! Hope you enjoy the picnic without us.’ Signed... Those...!” He crumpled the note in one hand, mouth tightening.

“I think the glamour’s worn off, wouldn’t you say?” Doyle bent and retrieved the crumpled note.

“Teaching us a lesson. Us! That was a legitimate call and they know it. In the paper and everything, foiling an assassination.”

“I love it when you use big words, sunshine.”

“Perfectly good weekend ruined.”

“Now don’t say that. What was it... every red-blooded...”

“Shut it.”

“We’ll just eat the food ourselves, splash around a bit and go back to civilisation whenever we want.”

#

A half hour later the two men sat in the boat, fishing.

The gentle sounds of water, once in a while the sound of a bird, and far-away traffic surrounded them.

Doyle risked a yawn and a cautious stretch. “It’s a good thing they don’t call it ‘catching,’ or we’d really be failing.”

“If you tip the boat I’m not rescuing you,” warned Bodie with a superior look.

“I can swim!”

“As well as you can fish?”

Since this was unanswerable, Doyle changed the subject. “Any more sandwiches?”

“We scoffed the lot.”

“Very naughty of us. We’ll just have to go to that pub we passed and buy more.”

“Who’s a greedy guts?”

“Ah, c’mon, Bodie! You’re telling me you don’t want more sandwiches?”

“I could fancy some little cakes. Pint of bitter. Half a lobster, and some curry. But other than that, I’m quite full.” He rubbed his stomach and gave Doyle a cheeky grin.

“Consider yourself punched,” suggested Doyle. “Not too hard, on the arm.” He turned back to the water.

“What, can’t even be bothered to do it yourself?”

“Don’t want to tip the boat, and can’t be bothered in this heat.” He looked out over the water, squinting in the bright sun. “Should’ve worn my sunglasses.”

“Indeed you should. Unlike you not to think ahead. And you should’ve worn older clothes—perhaps that pair of jeans with the patch on them. You know, the ones that are falling apart? Just in case _someone_ tipped the boat.”

Bodie swiftly propped his fishing rod across his knees and, widening his eyes and putting on a slightly mad expression, grabbed the sides of the boat. He began to shift his weight side to side.

“Bodie, don’t you dare!” Doyle grabbed for the sides of the boat, dropping his fishing rod or line.

“Don’t what?” asked Bodie. “I’m not doing— Ow.” He laughed, stopped rocking the boat, and reached up to rub his shoulder, grinning. “Afraid of a little water, are we?”

“Do you want to explain to Cowley why we got the car wet?” Doyle demanded.

Bodie changed the subject. “Hey, what sort of bait do you think it takes to catch goldfish?”

“What?”

“You heard me—or are your ears going? Bit like a hawk’s?” He made a slightly mocking face, and Doyle made one back at him.

“What do you mean, goldfish? There are no goldfish round here.”

“Sure as shootin’ there are,” said Bodie in his exaggerated fake American Western film star accent. “They’re in the Thames.”

“They are not. And in case you didn’t notice, we’re not on the Thames.”

“Yeah, thought we could go there next time. Catch some goldfish, mount them for Cowley. Make a nice pressie.”

“You’re making them up. There are no goldfish—”

“There are, there are! Read it in the paper.”

“Oh, you’re literate now? Looked at the pictures and made the rest up, I’ll bet.” This time, he caught the sides of the boat and began to rock.

Caught by surprise, Bodie yelped and laughed at the same time, grabbing for the sides. “Doyle—!”

Doyle subsided. “What, mate? Catch a fish?”

“Catch you in a minute, Angelfish.” He gave Doyle a look, and Doyle returned it with a bland, sweet smile. “Anyway, I did read it in the paper. Since they started cleaning it up, there’s all sorts of things living there, including goldfish. So our next fishing trip...”

Doyle grabbed the sides of the boat and rocked. “Our what?”

“Doyle!” Bodie grabbed the sides and, not to be outdone, began to rock it as well, his eyes flashing a challenge.

“Stop—”

“All—”

“Pax!” Doyle shouted, laughing and flinching from the spray.

“Okay, just—sit—”

“—still. I _am_. You sit still!”

“You... dropped...the oar!”

“BODIE!”

With a loud splash, the boat capsized and both men fell in.

Doyle came up spluttering, shaking his head, curls flattened, and glaring at his partner. Bodie dogpaddled with the confident ease of one who’d grown up around water. He was obviously trying not to smile—or perhaps, smirk.

“ _Bodie_!” Doyle swam closer with dark intent flashing in his eyes.

“Got to go!” Bodie headed towards shore with a speed Doyle couldn’t replicate.

“You get back here—and get the... the bloody boat!”

#

Two wet CI5 agents stretched out on the grass, shirts off. The shirts and the men were spread on the grass in the sun to dry. Sopping shoes sat in a row nearby. Both men wore wet jeans. Doyle’s hair was plastered down while Bodie’s had begun to stick up in little tufts of curl.

Once in a while Doyle gave a disconsolate sniff. He very pointedly didn’t look at Bodie.

“Come on, Ray. I didn’t do it on purpose. You were rocking the boat too.”

Doyle sniffed. He kept staring out over the water.

Bodie leaned closed. “Buy you a pint,” he offered cajolingly. “We can walk to the pub and by the time we come back, we’ll be dry enough to drive back without soaking the car.”

Doyle hesitated. “Two pints,” he said sullenly. “A sandwich. And a bag of crisps.”

“You’ve got it.” Bodie hopped up and offered his hand down to his partner to help him up.

Doyle pushed it aside and rose with stiff dignity.

They pulled on their shoes, minus socks. They stared down at their wet shirts doubtfully and with distaste. “If we don’t wear them, they probably won’t serve us,” reminded Bodie.

Grimacing, Doyle pulled his on, and Bodie did the same.

They started walking towards the pub, shoes squelching.

“Don’t you wish you’d worn your patched jeans now?” asked Bodie, leaning towards him and speaking in a low voice.

“I’ll patch your jeans in a minute.”

They were scuffling like overgrown delinquents by the time they reached the pub.

 

 

 

<<<>>>

 

 

 

 


End file.
